


Oubliette

by Razer_Athane



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Established Relationship, F/M, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:35:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24225202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Razer_Athane/pseuds/Razer_Athane
Summary: She took the chance to become a templar - to protect, to win. It isn’t as she expects. “Like the lyrium holds you in an oubliette."
Relationships: Cullen Rutherford/Female Trevelyan, Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	1. I.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing.
> 
> Author’s Note: Wrote this about five years ago within DAI’s first year of release (can't believe it's been so long now, goddd). It was born of a special dialogue option that gave me the feels so bad. There’s another three chapters after this that I’ll post soon. This fic has a special little place in my heart, so I would love to know your thoughts! Enjoy :)

_“I’m going to lose my memories?”_

* * *

The very thought of forgetting _anything_ keeps Trevelyan awake for the night.

She can’t imagine forgetting how the air in the Frostbacks is so cold that she can feel it _biting_ into her bones. The way that those who support the Inquisition look to her with eyes so wide and hopeful, that she has to stuff her doubts down her throat and try and be brave for them. The way something in her chest shifts when she feels like she’s legitimately made a difference.

She can’t imagine forgetting the way her throat constricts when she thinks of her deceased older sibling, let alone his face. The way the Anchor feels, a notable burning sensation stretching from her palm, transforming into tingles down her fingers. The sound of Dorian’s laugh, of Cassandra’s frustrated huff, and of Cole’s nonsensical chattering about what he feels around him.

The way Cullen always touches her face with such gentleness.

No.

At the same time, Trevelyan cannot imagine turning her back on something she’s wanted since she was small.

She cannot imagine looking at herself at eight years old, and telling her the heartbreaking truth of lyrium, of how it’s used to control those who serve under the Templar Order, and how it could very well ruin her. Because her eight year old self would simply look back at her with unyielding green eyes and say, “I want to protect my brother in the Circle.”

Maker, she never did get that chance, did she?

He is dead. But her desire to protect remains.

She has the chance. She took it after careful consideration.

There was a part of her that expected Cullen to be proud, perhaps, in a small way. He understands, after all – he was a templar himself and joined for the same reasons: to protect. Even though he left because he knew he could do better for himself and for others, that core concept, that core motivation remained. But there’s none of that, only concern, and frustration and _reconsider._

The conversation plays over. About how she could lose her memories because of the lyrium. The way his hands clenched uselessly at his sides and how he’s clearly remembering the feel of lyrium and trying to fight against it, like a man reaching for the exit in the sky. And as much as that upsets her, she still can’t find it in her to believe that this was the wrong choice.

Trevelyan wonders if the Red Templars forgot their loved ones.

There is no denying she cares for Cullen and what they’ve only just begun building between them – so new, fragile, fresh. There is also no denying that she thinks for herself, for now, this is the best course of action, no matter how anxious she feels at the very thought of forgetting. That this is how Trevelyan can make a greater difference not only as the Inquisitor or for the Inquisition, but for the templars themselves, and even the mages.

To show that the faceless, cruel templars of some Circles do not represent the majority. To show that templars and mages _can work_ together – after all, the rebel mages under Fiona’s guidance stand with her. That there is a chance for everyone.

She is alright so far. She could always stop the lyrium later, right?

* * *

On the way from Crestwood well over a week after the conversation, Trevelyan decides to ask those around her about memory loss pertaining to lyrium.

Alistair, the Grey Warden they have acquired, mentions that he heard of it during his templar training, but never saw it around him. “When I heard about it, it had been such a horrifying thought. But honestly, at that point, I wasn’t sure I would hate it down the road. To forget the times I felt neglected and unwanted wouldn’t have been so bad, I suppose. To forget the Hero of Ferelden’s dea… I… As if I would’ve been able to _choose_ what I forget and what I remember. That’s a laugh. You bring up interesting topics, Inquisitor.”

Cassandra’s seen it in other templars, and mentions how thankful she is that she is a Seeker. “I would not want to forget Most Holy or my family, no matter how numerous and troublesome they are. I learnt a lot from them all. It is those lessons that I would be scared of forgetting. But when you see it in other good men and women, sometimes it is a gift.”

Vivienne treats the conversation with an almost clinical detachment, listing the positive and negative effects of losing one’s memory. But she does wonder about why memory loss affects templars as opposed to mages, seeing as they both use lyrium. “It is the same thing, and yet it affects each of us differently. I don’t know of any mages who forget like some templars have. I suppose it would be because they were ordinary, once; and we mages never were.”

Varric is uncomfortable with the conversation and the thought. But he trails off, “I’ve heard of it, stories back from Orzammar from the miners who didn’t take the precautions and all. But the look on Bartrand’s face when he couldn’t remember… Couldn’t focus on anything but the song…” And that’s enough for Hawke, in his own special way, to interject and tell a story about an older templar who came to take his Father and sister to the Circle, only to forget why he arrived.

It sounds more common place than Trevelyan thought, and it scares her.

“Is there something wrong?” Cassandra eventually inquires, her posture still stiff as they pass through mud and past another Inquisition camp. She glances quickly at Varric, seeing how the dwarf’s shoulders are slumped uncharacteristically, before continuing, “If you are having trouble with the lyrium, I would imagine there would be other side effects first as opposed to forgetting.”

“No,” Trevelyan says. “It was just a thought.”

“Just something Curly said,” Varric amends.

“You know I really don’t like it when you do that.”

Hawke huffs, “If he didn’t stop doing it to me about Merrill, then there’s no chance he’ll stop doing it to you. Best to learn to love it.”

Cassandra’s mouth twists into a half-smile a little, “There is nothing to be concerned about, Inquisitor. What Cullen described to you occurs in older templars, and it is not as widespread as it may seem. I apologise if my comments worried you further.”

“It’s not that,” she says, twisting her hands.

“You are capable, and strong. I do not think that will be your fate.”

Trevelyan asks, “What about people?”

Cassandra silences at that, narrowing her eyes; and then she moves up ahead, as though she personally wants nothing more to do with the conversation. Vivienne won’t look at her. Varric says something about needing a drink when they return to Skyhold. Hawke and Alistair exchange glances, the latter holding in a sigh.

“Do they forget people?” she asks again.

No one will answer her.

She doesn’t sleep that night either.

* * *

Trevelyan decides to spend as much time as possible memorising absolutely everything.

The way her heart is lodged in her throat as they approach Adamant. The warm rush of wind. The way the sand beneath her feet parts with every step. Alistair’s uncertainty. Hawke’s anger. The fear in the eyes of the Grey Wardens. The troops who love her and will die for her. Her companions’ willingness to help her.

She stands before Adamant and readies her sword and shield. She calls on the lyrium, so new in her blood, so that she may use her templar abilities as best as she can. And it _sings_. It sings so prettily, like her Mother’s lullabies and the sound of her brother’s magic. She hopes she never forgets that.

She meets Cullen eyes for a split second and then runs in after Hawke and Alistair.

* * *

She thinks for a moment that she’s having an off week, but it’s happening to often in such a short space of time.

Trevelyan knows.

Its small things at first. Forgetting how she is supposed to greet Orlesian officials in an aloof manner rather than the directness that is required of Ferelden officials. Forgetting that Adamant was not situated in the Hissing Wastes, but rather in the Western Approach. Putting the wrong token on the war table – or putting it in the wrong location. Just little, forgivable things that could be surmised to exhaustion. She’s the _Inquisitor_ and she’s trying to save the _world,_ after all.

Soon it becomes things that are more important.

What day was her brother’s birthday again? Where is the dagger she wants to give to Cole for his collection? Where is the last rogue templar that Cassandra wanted to deal with? When was the last time Varric laughed?

Some answers she finds. The dagger is where she left it, on her table, polished and ready to give to the strange boy who finds them so fascinating. The last rogue templar – Ser Hildebrandt it was, she thinks – is in the Exalted Plains. Varric hasn’t laughed properly since the last game of Wicked Grace, because he is still in mourning over the loss of Hawke at Adamant – in the Fade –weeks ago now.

She never does remember brother’s birthday.

This can’t just be exhaustion.

Trevelyan hopes the other members don’t notice. They have their own lives and their own problems – she doesn’t need to add to their burden. Her newfound templar abilities are useful on the field, against all sorts of enemies. Solas is always particularly grateful when she defends him, and Vivienne is critical – but encouraging – on her technique. Cassandra practices with her and they bond. So she will endure this… forgetfulness. She can stop the lyrium when it’s over.

Trevelyan is content with that until the day she cannot find something most precious.

She hears heavy steps – always evenly spaced – but she doesn’t _notice_ because _where is it?_

“Inquisitor,” Cullen begins, and if she weren’t so focused on her search, then she would’ve heard the telltale shuffle of papers and most likely noticed his own exhaustion. “I would not disturb you if weren’t necessary, but I was wondering if we could go over the allocation of soldiers to the Arbor Wilds. I’m concerned it’s insufficient.”

She doesn’t answer, too busy tearing apart her room looking for this one _small, simple thing_ that should’ve been _right there,_ and it’s not, and she doesn’t want to lose it for Maker’s sake. It’s important. It’s too important. It means so much.

“Lady Trevelyan?” Cullen asks. She doesn’t catch the worry in his voice.

“Where is it?”

“Where is what?”

“The…” She can’t find words. “I can’t find it, I…”

Cullen puts his papers down on her table and grabs her hands. He notices that they’re shaking. But Trevelyan won’t settle, even now her eyes are looking around the room at places she may have forgotten. Cullen tries again, much softer this time, wondering what it is that she’s misplaced that’s sent her into such a panic, “What is it?”

Trevelyan still can’t find the words and she’s so distant…

He releases her hands, takes a step back and asks, “What does it look like? I’ll help.”

“Small, round. Grey, flat.”

“Alright.”

He’s already on his way to her bookshelf – she always leaves random, small things there – when she suddenly exhales in a loud rush, relief flooding through her voice. “It’s here. It’s alright. It’s here. Everything’s alright.”

When he turns to look, he can’t help but blink owlishly.

It’s his lucky coin. The one he had since he was a boy. The one he gave to her.

Cullen is surprised to find her staring at it in her hand, furrowing her eyebrows with such intensity that it made him wonder what is running through her mind. He’s about to ask if she’s alright now when she begins speaking quickly, almost stumbling over her words; unlike her, “I thought – I thought it was in its usual pocket, but it wasn’t and I just… Don’t want to lose this. You gave it to me after the events at Adamant. At the lake. Therefore, it’s special. I didn’t want to lose it. It was… It was in my other pocket. It shouldn’t be there.”

Cullen watches as Trevelyan puts the coin into her right pocket – and she makes _sure_ it’s her right one, he can see the thought cross her mind – before she exhales, trying to calm herself. But she is concerned about something. It’s obvious to him. It’s been very obvious to Leliana, and even Josephine, who asks him at every opportunity if something is wrong.

He didn’t think there was, but now seeing this, he isn’t sure.

“Are you well?” Cullen asks, approaching her and wringing his hands nervously. The soldiers can wait for a moment – he’s probably just being pedantic again, wanting to ensure the best protection possible for her when they storm the Arbor Wilds in a few days.

“Yes,” she responds almost mechanically, shutting her eyes and still recollecting herself.

“Are… _we_ well?”

Her eyes, bright like the sun bursting through leaves, open immediately and without hesitation and with plenty of conviction, responds, “Of course.”

“Is there… something you need to tell me? Is there something bothering you?”

“No. I’m just having a bad day. Don’t worry about me. What was it you came in here for, Cullen?”

He nods a little, passing her and recollecting the papers he brought in, and begins to go over with her the allocation of soldiers for the Arbor Wilds. But as he continues to speak, he gets the distinct feeling that although Trevelyan is trying to listen and pitch in, she’s just unable to. Especially given the way she continues to rub one of her temples.

“Are you in pain?”

“Cullen, stop.”

“You are not yourself.”

“I said _stop._ ”

So he does, mumbling something and looking down at his shoes, but he can’t hide the concern. Trevelyan sees it strongest in the way he runs his gloved hand along her spine, the gesture clearly being partly concerned, partly affectionate and partly apologetic. She says she doesn’t want to burden him – and cuts him off before he has the chance to say otherwise – and affirms that the soldiers allocated are adequate for the attack in two weeks time.

“If there is nothing else, Commander,” Trevelyan remarks, shuffling on her feet, “then you may go.”

Cullen hesitates for several moments on his feet before reminding her that if she requires anything, he will be in his office, preparing for the assault on the horizon.

Trevelyan only moves away from the desk once she is sure he’s left. She stares at her hands and thinks harder about her brother’s birthday, but it never comes.

She remembers his face, the sound of his obnoxious voice, the day he found out he had magic, the day he was taken to the Circle and the day that he died; but not the day he would stuff his face with cake and love the attention.

Within moments, she punches the wall, crosses back to her desk and pulls out a blank sheet and, once she remembers where she put her quill, begins to write a request to Josephine.

It’s on the Ambassador’s desk within the hour.


	2. II.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the feedback so far! Here's chapter 2 - enjoy :)

_“It’s possible. If you take lyrium for the rest of your life._

_I’ve seen it happen – mostly in older templars. They start to forget. Small things at first – a misplaced item, words to a song – but more fades away over time._

_I’m sorry, I… thought you knew.”_

* * *

It’s the repetition that really has Cullen _see_ that there’s most certainly a problem.

The puzzled expression when she learns that they have already been to the Arbor Wilds and done what was needed. The requests for reports she’s already read. The apologies afterward. The statements she’s said before, but can’t remember saying, and then the worry on her face when people look at her with confusion. The annoyance of the Orlesian nobles when they have to repeat something they said only a moment ago because the Inquisitor cannot properly recall it.

“I demand you judge him!” one shouts.

The faltering look in her eyes when she can’t remember what the prisoner had done.

“There are so many thoughts, too cloudy to push through,” Cole says one day, appearing on his desk in his usual, ghostly fashion, “I can’t push through. It’s too hard to see and they are too heavy to move. Maker, I don’t want to say anything. I need to seal the Breach, stitch it closed like Mother stitching the holes in my brother’s shirts shut. But I – there is singing. Melodic. Sad. What was the singing? I am forgetting. What am I forgetting?”

People forget where they’ve put things from time to time. That’s normal. But this is not.

Forgetting where you put things is one thing. The amount of times Cullen himself has forgotten where he’s put his books or greaves is beyond counting. Forgetting things that were done, that happens to people from time to time too. Cullen sometimes cannot remember Meredith’s rage at the mages – the final battle, he will always remember; but the little things she would do in the Gallows beforehand slip away.

Forgetting how to do something is an entirely different ordeal, especially when you’ve done it several times before. And it worries him, almost as much as the water in her eyes when she looks up at him, because it is unlike her.

“Would you help me, please?” she asks quietly, looking at the kit beside her bed. “I wouldn’t ask, I know you’re still recovering, but –”

“It’s alright.”

“Cullen –”

“It’s alright,” he repeats, sitting beside her and pulling up the sleeve on her left arm until it’s past her elbow.

Trevelyan is silent after that, almost like the mice that stalk through the kitchens in Skyhold. She watches carefully, trying to commit the routine to memory, as he ties the cloth above her elbow and hunts quietly for veins. She watches carefully, seeing his hands shake as he turns back to the kit and withdraw lyrium from the tube and into the needle.

The gentle stroke of his gloves against her skin is soft. The push of the needle isn’t, but the rush of lyrium afterward is sweet, like the candies she and her brother would buy from the shops; and it is relaxing, easing the storm in her mind like a long chess game with Cullen or Dorian.

“I wanted this. To be a templar,” she clarifies, her voice slowing as every sentence went on. “Ever since I was small, I would watch them patrol the streets of Ostwick, careful but brave, and shining under the sun. I wanted to become one to protect my brother in the Circle. Once he discovered he had magic, he loved fire, you see; but our parents feared it, understandably so. He was happy to go, but… not happy to be there. To be away. Pleased to learn, but not to be discriminated for who he was. And every day, I would ask to begin templar training, only to be told to wait. For years that went on, even as my Father taught me how to use a sword and shield, even as I thought about going to the Circle and defending him. But he died long before I had the chance.”

“Was it because of the rebellion?” Cullen asks softly, trying to steady himself as he removes the needle once the last drops of lyrium disappeared. It is amazing how many people have died because of the rebellion – it is amazing how many people have been _defined_ because of it.

“No, the rebellion came later. I’m told he did not pass his Harrowing, but I think it may have been something else.”

“I have heard that Circle is known to be particularly unfair. It is admirable that you wanted to go there to protect him,” Cullen gently pulls her sleeve back down her arm, watching as she calms now that the lyrium is in her system. He misses that, knowing that he’ll be calm soon because of the lyrium. But he will not become dependent on it again. “I’m just sorry that there was no chance to do so.”

Trevelyan hums a little before reaching to hold one of his hands, “Your hands, they were sh –”

“Don’t.”

She wonders if, in time, she will be like Cullen. Off the lyrium, no longer needing it for the templar abilities; but finding it hard not to think of it. He is making great improvements, and for that Trevelyan is immensely proud of him; but it lingers, like his eyes on the container, and the way his teeth press together when he sees other templars using their talents. But she must still use it, whatever the cost; at least until Corypheus is dead and the Breach is closed.

“Do you still feel it much? The lyrium, I mean.” Cullen nods, and she sighs, squeezing his hand a little before removing hers, “I’m sorry. I won’t ask again.”

“You will. And when you do, it’s alright.”

“I will?”

“This is the fifth time you have asked in the past two weeks.”

Trevelyan covers her face with her hands, her nails digging into her skin, and exhales sharply. Her breath catches a little at the end when she speaks, and she feels like she’s crumbling and falling all at once, “I’m sorry.”

Cullen frowns a little.

“I shouldn’t be asking you, I should be asking Vivienne or someone else. Not you,” Trevelyan looks up at him, eyes glittering a little, and with a frown that he wants to smear from her face with his thumb. “You’re _recovering_ and I keep stuffing the thing you are trying to get away from in your face, all because I can’t remember how to operate the damn thing. It’s not fair to you. I’m sorry.”

He pulls her close for a moment, an arm around her shoulders, and presses his scarred mouth to the top of her head, waiting for her to settle. Once she does, he speaks, “There is something wrong, and you’re not telling me what it is. I respect your decision to be silent, but there are times where shouldering the burden yourself will not benefit anyone. Please remember that the next time you consciously choose to keep the problem inside.”

“You know I love you, right?”

“Yes, I know. And I you.”

“As long as you know.”

They are quiet for a few moments, save for the occasional shuffle and for the sound of the lyrium box being shut. Trevelyan pulls away and tucks it underneath the bed, away from her Commander, and she notes how he visibly relaxes once it is out of his sight.

“The next time I ask you to help me with the lyrium, say no, alright?”

He smirks, “I can’t say no to you.”

“…Well, I walked into that one.”

Cullen nods a little, chuckles and kisses the top of her head again. As he begins to leave, he tells her that Varric and the others are waiting for her in the tavern, and that he _won’t_ be joining them for a repeat performance; but that he wishes her a good time all the same and would like to hear of it the next spare moment she has. 

* * *

There is a scrap of paper on his desk in the morning.

_‘The lyrium is making me forget.’_

* * *

“ _Forgetting,_ ” he says idly, fiddling with the small items strewn across his desk.

Trevelyan’s arms are folded across her body, her fingernails digging into her elbows. She doesn’t trust her voice, so she nods. If her brother were alive and she told him the truth, he would have exploded, demanding that he stop her foolishness, that he was okay, and that she needed to protect herself.

She expects the same of Cullen. He is a former templar, after all, and he knows what lyrium can do. He loves her, and it is much in the same vein as her brother’s protective kind of love. But all she sees his sadness, maybe even disappointment, and it is an uncomfortable and upsetting thing to see. Sharper than the cuts the Red Templars try to leave on her. Burning harder than the stray Venatori’s spells.

“I’m sorry, I should’ve told you earlier. I’m just… afraid. I thought you should know.”

“But this is not supposed to occur until you’re older,” Cullen says, rubbing his temples. He begins to pace his office, uncomfortable in his armour and with the fact that _his Inquisitor_ is _forgetting_ because of _lyrium._ “You’re… too young.”

“Maybe I am. Maybe I’m not. Maybe lyrium doesn’t care about how old I am.”

“Does anyone else know?”

“I think Cassandra suspects, and I am sure that Leliana has discovered it for herself. But I’ve not said a word to anyone. I don’t want to burden anyone. I want to do my job, do it well, help those who need it and move on. My problems are not an issue.”

When Cullen looks at her, with her sparkling green eyes and certainty in her words, he can see somewhere in there a shadow of the man he used to be. Keeping his problems and nightmares close to himself, for they were his to own and conquer, not anyone else’s; and because he did not want to burden anyone else. But then he sees her and her posture, slumped and pulling inward. She is scared of what could happen.

“You told me you wanted to become a templar to protect people too,” she begins, fiddling with her hands. She stares at the Anchor in her palm, sickly and glowing; she is unaware of how it illuminates her face and bounces from her eyes, “I would have thought you’d understand.”

“I understood. That doesn’t mean I’m not afraid for you.”

“I can’t remember my own brother’s birthday. I’m worried about what else I could forget, especially before Corypheus.”

Cullen’s eyes flick to a particular door and then back to Trevelyan, who seems to be standing a little better, a little more open now that her concerns are out. “An accomplice of mine could not recall his own name before the lyrium took him violently to his grave. I don’t want you to suffer the same fate. Could you see someone about it? Perhaps Solas? He is wise and knowledgeable, and he cares about you. He may be able help. He will not say anything to others.”

Vivienne would be able to confirm the case, but perhaps not be as helpful. She would probably tell others. Dorian would not have any idea on what to do, but he would be silent. Solas is a nice mixture of both – of knowledge, experience, silence and friendship – so she nods and asks softly, “Would you come with me?”

“I’ll fetch him now and bring him here. If we were to visit him in his study, I am sure the conversation would carry, and others would hear of it. I’ll be back shortly. Please make yourself at home.”

The journey to Solas’ area of Skyhold is short. Convincing him to come back is a little harder – he is still grieving for the loss of his… spirit-friend – but when he hears the Inquisitor needs him, the elf is all smiles and follows wordlessly.

When he returns, she is pacing anxiously. Cullen is about to ask what the matter is when Trevelyan announces, “I have something to tell you.”

“What is it?” he asks hesitantly. Behind him, Solas is watching with wolf-like precision.

And again, despite the hesitance at Solas’ arrival, she tells him that the lyrium is making her forget – another repetition. But he already knows. They have already had the conversation. Cullen would repeat everything he has said – that he understands, that is afraid for her and that something must be done – but she looks like she is going to jump out of her own skin, now more than before.

When Trevelyan sits behind his desk so that Solas can overlook her, she spots the scrap of paper on top of all his work. The one she wrote and left on his desk this morning. She holds it up curiously and then looks at him, even as the elf shuffles around, feeling her forehead, checking her pulse and so on. When the information sinks in, she crushes it in her hand and rubs her face, “I’ve already told you.”

“Lady Trevelyan, please. It’s alright.” He watches as Solas gingerly picks up her marked hand and inspect it.

“No, Cullen, this isn’t alright! Stop saying that it is. It’s not helping.”

Cullen silences then, because he doesn’t know how else he can comfort her and that deeply upsets him more than he lets on.

“It is possible that the Anchor is accelerating the problem,” Solas surmises, placing her marked hand back into her lap. “Your connection to the Breach is not as beneficial as most would hope. You were very ill as you slept and the nerve pain you have described to me in the past has an obvious link; it is possible that the Breach is affecting you negatively once again.

“It is then also probable that the problem will settle or perhaps even reverse once we have sealed the Breach and stopped Corypheus from claiming Godhood. Until such a time, I will provide whatever assistance I can. I have noticed your concentration as of late is particularly suffering in the field – it seems this is why.”

Trevelyan seems satisfied with that, but adds, “I don’t notice any changes when I seal a rift.”

“The rifts are side effects of the Breach. You cannot treat the problem by treating its side effects. You must confront the issue at its core and fix it appropriately – and then the side effects will disappear.” He gives a half bow, uncertain of what else to do, and then says he will return to his study and begin looking for answers.

Trevelyan threads her fingers through her hair. Cullen simply stands still, too afraid to approach now that he knows his attempts at comfort have been doing the opposite.

* * *

“I’m sorry.”

It startles him at first, this presence at night in the garden that is none other than the Inquisitor. Cullen looks up for a moment from the royal elfroots that have been planted in the pots – he is taking calculations on what else the Inquisition needs – and furrows his eyebrows. He won’t look at her, uncertain of what he’ll find. The wall is safer, “Pardon?”

“I was an asshole to you the other day. I shouldn’t have snapped at you as I did. You were only trying to help and I –”

“No, it’s alright,” Cullen says, now looking down at his feet, feeling more like that boy in Kinoch Hold than the Knight-Captain he once was, or the Commander he is now is.

They stand awkwardly in the garden, their gazes hovering on where Morrigan usually is but not for today; and they remember the anger she felt when she learnt that Mythal was her Mother. Trevelyan coughs a little and then rubs at her throat, unsure of how to progress.

She’s never been good at apologies.

“You said, um, th-that it wasn’t helping. I would like to know what does help, so that I may do so for the future.”

She looks at him with tingling warmth in her chest, watching him watch his feet and then his hands and then the wall. And when Trevelyan reaches for his hand and holds it, Cullen at last meets her eyes.

* * *

She tells her companions and other advisors soon after that, because it is in the best interests of everyone that they know that the Inquisitor is suffering because of the lyrium. Because of her choice to become a templar. The Iron Bull tells her a little suffering is good, but mentions that this particular suffering is bad. He rubs his chin, “As long as it’s only little things.”

“Wouldn’t want to forget how to seal the rifts,” Sera adds, chewing on a cookie and secretly pleased that everyone enjoys the batch she made. “Would look like a right tit standing there in the middle of demons, wondering what the problem is. End of the world and all that, too.”

“I don’t want to offend some _Orlesian… fancy pants_ because I can’t remember which fork is the _right_ one to eat with, and that I shouldn’t shove it into their eye,” Trevelyan spits angrily.

Noble. The word was noble, not fancy pants.

Varric laughs at that anyhow – which Trevelyan notes – and raises his mug.

The Inquisitor is very grateful that her friends have accepted the problem so easily, and that they are so supportive and ready to assist when needed. But she doesn’t feel lighter for doing so, rather the opposite.

Her friends already have their own issues. Every single one of them. And now in addition to the looming threat of the end of the world, they will now worry about her and her forgetfulness. All because of a stupid thing that’s mined from the ground and injected into her veins to give her the abilities she needs to help.

She frustratingly finds herself unable to say the right words or phrases for the rest of the evening, even as it slips by quietly, like the days of autumn. But being in the company of those she cares about – except for Commander Cullen, because his nose is pressed deep into his work, as usual – is settling only in the sense that she is not alone.

Just as she is going to ascend the stairs to her bedroom, Josephine catches her wrist and requests a moment of her time. When she turns and finds the ambassador is not holding paperwork or requests for aid, she pauses curiously.

“You have it, yes?” Trevelyan asks, wringing her hands.

“Of course, Inquisitor. I’m sorry it did not arrive sooner,” Josephine smiles, and she holds out a thick, green book.


	3. III.

_“Older templars… Do they ever forget people? Loved ones?”_

* * *

Corypheus is dead.

The party at Skyhold goes on through the night, even though she is beginning to forget the details of the fight. Something about a dragon – about Morrigan nearly dying during the process, and about Vivienne becoming… more important than she already is, or something. Divine, wasn’t it?

Solas is gone. It hurts.

In the weeks leading up to the final battle, he provided her with herbs – their names and the means to locate them – that seem to slow the effect of memory loss in his travels. She doesn’t know if they’ve worked or not, but she instead focused on the hope that, with the Breach sealed, she will stop forgetting. But he disappears after Corypheus is slain, broken in his general demeanour much like the orb he sought to salvage.

She still can’t remember her brother’s birthday.

Trevelyan becomes increasingly uncomfortable in her own skin as people continue to celebrate her accomplishment. Josephine is frantic about who she speaks with and who she doesn’t, insisting that she must speak to this Duke from Antiva, these twins from Denerim and this ambassador from the Anderfels. She only wants to speak to Cullen, who is at the other side of the room away from the chaos, but keeping a close and loving eye on her. She is thankful that her companions – minus elf mage – are staying.

She tries to focus on her victory, but she finds instead that she just wants to get away. All these people practically kissing her feet for stopping the world from falling off a cliff – she only had _the means,_ not the confidence or the ‘divine right.’ The next person who says that is going to cop her fist in their face, she _knows_ it.

That night, when she does slip away to her room with Cullen and holds his face in her hands, she can’t help but think something’s still not right.

The ones that follow are much the same, awkward and unsure. Meetings in the day. Thankful that she is still alive to sleep beside the love of her life at night. Waking him from a nightmare, should he have one; and remembering that these people who have come to see her aren’t trying to annoy her but rather express their extreme appreciation for doing what no one else would.

Vivienne is crowned Divine, taking the name Victoria within a matter of weeks. Trevelyan is there, watching as Vivienne sits on the Sunburst Throne and _suits_ it. She does not miss her all that much and finds she is not surprised at all when the Circles are reinstated, and that templars remain. She imagines the lyrium miners in Orzammar are grateful that their industry will not collapse.

But after that… she begins to withdraw. And everyone notices.

She forgets the day often, and whether she ate or not. She decides that’s normal, perhaps.

Forgetting whether or not Celene survived the Winter Palace, however, was not normal. It is another issue that she has not told them about. And it is this that guts her, that she cannot remember this event even though she was an integral part of it. It’s… _Gaspard_ on the throne, right? Or was it Celene and Briala, together?

It guts her because of what it _means_ , not because of what she cannot recall.

The Breach is closed and she continues to forget. It is the lyrium, her choice to become a templar.

“I am not up for judging prisoners today, nor assisting in relief efforts in the Exalted Plains,” Trevelyan says to Josephine when she tries to convince her to come downstairs and do something.

“No, but,” Josephine tries something else desperately, for she knows depression and will always do her best to help people burst through it. “Surely you could do something other than sit in here. This is not like you. People still need your help down there. They look to you for assistance and guidance.”

“The rifts are sealed. The Breach is gone,” Trevelyan spits, curling over her desk more so, “They don’t need me anymore, and that’s good. They can continue with their lives, now that they know the world is not going to end tomorrow.”

“Inquisitor, please.”

“I said _no_ , Josephine. Leave me.”

“I will see to it that you are not disturbed for the rest of the evening, except for food.” And then Josephine all but slams the door shut. Trevelyan rubs her temples as the sound echoes through her mind, like promises that she could not keep to her brother, and the ones that she still hoped she could keep to Cullen.

She is tired of going out there and making a difference for others when she can hardly make a difference to herself. It is a depressing thought.

In the silence, Trevelyan continues to scribble in the thick, green book Josephine had procured for her.

* * *

“Just _one game,_ ” Varric says, touching her shoulder lightly.

She pulls away and takes several steps towards the fire, “No. I’m sorry I just, I do not want to leave here. I don’t want to go out there and see them believe I’m the new Andraste. I just want to stay here. I want to be _me_ , not the Herald, not the Inquisitor, not a villain or a saviour. Just _me._ ”

Varric frowns and strokes at his chin, watching as the Inquisitor looks out the window and into the snow-covered mountains. It is not the first time he has attempted to draw her out of her room for a game, but now that he knows why, he can sympathise.

The people are becoming concerned. He tells her this, when he can, and she doesn’t care; and when he reminds her later, it is as though she forgot they had the conversation entirely. Clicking his tongue, he begins, “Remember when we were on the Storm Coast and we saw that giant and dragon fighting? And how you didn’t want to go near it but decided to do so because it was near enough to an Inquisition camp to cause trouble?”

“I…” A pause. She sucks in a breath. “No.”

“No as in, ‘Varric you’re telling it wrong,’ or as in ‘I don’t remember’?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Well… It’s like I said. You, me, Seeker and Chuckles saw that giant and dragon fighting. We waited on your call, and you said that you didn’t want to go near the squabble, but thought it best for those at the camp nearby. You walked right in there, the dragon flew off, and we took down the giant – because you were worried about those people who fought for you.”

“Does this have a point?”

Varric scratches his nose and walks across her room, “My point is, you went in there and defused that situation for the good of others. You stopped a deranged mage from enslaving the rest of his southern kind. You’ve stopped a darkspawn magister and his grumpy pet dragon for the good of others, and more. When are you going to do something that’s good _for you_ , like get drunk and laugh with your friends?”

Trevelyan thinks for a long time on her reply. As the silence stretches on, Varric believes he’s won – at least until she opens her mouth and says with a weakness he has not seen in her before, “When I stop feeling like I will forget their names and hurt them any day now.”

“Bah. You’re just like Fenris – broody and… Well even _he_ was sociable once in a while. I’ll leave you to your misery.”

She sighs at that, finds the sound of the door closing satisfying, and returns to write in her thick, green book.

At least until half an hour later, when her door is thrown open and _every single one_ of her friends that remained in Skyhold swarms into her room. She slams the book shut, eyes darting about almost in panic – until she spots Blackwall with the drinks, the Iron Bull with extra chairs – and Cole appears, snatches her book away and places it on the shelf.

Even Cullen is here – and _Leliana_ – both of whom slide by her and begin to move the table away from its corner of the room.

“What are you doing?” Trevelyan asks, bewildered.

“You said you didn’t want to leave your room,” Varric begins, shuffling the cards in his hands as everyone else practically rearranges her room. “That you wanted to be _you_ for a while, that being _out there_ made you feel like… _not_ you. So I thought we would come into your space instead, so that you can keep being you with the people who care about you.”

“Good, innit?” Sera laughs. “When people can take care of you, for once, instead of you going around mopping up other people’s mess. Well sit down! Blackwall, hit me. And I’ve been told to tell you that Miss Fancy Pants sends her best regards.”

“Madame Vivienne wouldn’t appreciate being called Miss Fancy Pants,” Josephine snits, taking chairs with Cassandra from the Iron Bull and placing them around the table. She laughs when Sera tells her she couldn’t care less.

Trevelyan watches as they all sit down and wait for her. She can’t swallow the lump in her throat or shake the fact that she can’t remember how she met Sera or Blackwall right now. But the smiles on their faces when she finally joins them – the way Cullen links her fingers with her and tells Varric to deal – makes her overlook the pain of forgetting.

* * *

It is encouraging to see Cullen function well without lyrium, and that he is helping others who wish to do the same.

The lapses are few now. Usually only after a nightmare – and it would often be so easy to reach under the Inquisitor’s bed and take her supply. Just once. _Just once,_ but he never does, and Trevelyan finds that amazing and it just reinforces how strong he is and how much she loves him.

To remain unyielding in the face of addiction and adversity is not an easy thing, and he continues to fight it.

She wonders if she should do the same.

Yes, she thinks on it heavily one night as she lazily traces the scars on his sleeping body with her eyes. She could do the same. She physically walked into the Fade – not once, but _twice,_ and survived. She destroyed Corypheus and sealed the Breach in the sky, leaving nothing but a haunting scar in its wake to remind people of the price of greed. She has accomplished more than any single person could hope to do so.

Surely she could conquer lyrium.

“Is something the matter?”

His voice, heavy with sleep, startles her for a moment even though he is facing away from her. He offers a slurred explanation – she is completely still, and – this is news to her – it’s a clear sign to him that she’s awake, because she usually moves a lot in her sleep. Trevelyan snorts and counters with the fact that he talks in his sleep.

Cullen’s having none of it, but he does not yet have the capacity to turn over and face her, “You are avoiding my question. Is something the matter?”

“Do I make a good templar?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I prefer to think of you as the Inquisitor, but I’m told you are an efficient templar.”

“I don’t catch mages.”

“You don’t need to ‘catch mages’ – you embody what it is to be a templar. You are strong. You defend the innocent and help those in need. You work well with your team and do what is right. You do not break in the face of darkness. Nothing else is required to be an efficient templar.”

Trevelyan hums at that, shuffling closer to his warm body. She presses her lips to his shoulder once, twice and notes his shudder before exhaling sharply, “I am going to try and stop lyrium.” She doesn’t need to see his face to know that Cullen’s smiling, and that he’s happy to hear that. She swallows, “The war is over. There is no need for me to use templar abilities anymore, so there is no need for me to stay on it. I… hope being off lyrium will help with the memory loss.”

“There’s only one way to find out if it does. I will hide your lyrium kit in the morning.”

“I can’t ask you to do that.”

He turns over, clearly still tired, but no less determined to speak, “You don’t have to ask. I’m going to, because I want to. This will not be an easy. You will get sick. You will have migraines. You will want with every fibre of your being to return to lyrium. I… still struggle, some days. But I have faith in you, not as the Herald or Inquisitor, but as _you,_ the person. I believe in you, as you believe in me.”

Trevelyan feels like her heart might burst, so she reaches for him in the darkness and holds him close.

* * *

Cullen is right. It is not easy.

Within the first two days, she finds herself vomiting. Within the first week, she has the most ridiculous headache – Cullen always corrects it to ‘migraine’ – that she can remember. She wants to tear down the sun and remain buried in her covers and in silence forever, even now as she is at dinner with Queen Anora of Ferelden.

The travel to Denerim was long, but it felt longer because _she needs_ the lyrium. She fights it, though, with every breath she can, even though she can still hear it singing. Even though she can still feel it in her veins. Her patience becomes thinner every day, stretched like the marks on her hips.

Queen Anora talks about how her Father was beheaded right in front of her for doing what he thought was right. She talks about how even though she did not agree with his methods, it gutted her to see someone so proud, so loved, meet such an end. She tries to recall memories of her Mother, but none come.

“I am told, Inquisitor, that you are from Ostwick,” Queen Anora says, smiling with such radiance that Trevelyan feels inadequate in her presence. “It would please me to hear of any stories of your home that you would like to share. You are Bann Trevelyan’s youngest, yes? What of your siblings?”

“I had an elder brother,” Trevelyan says, poking idly at her food. “He was sent to the Circle. He did not survive his Harrowing.”

Anora frowns. If she were not so far from the Inquisitor, she would have reached for her hand and sympathetically squeezed it. As it is, she is nowhere near her. “I’m sorry to hear that. You must have been very fond of him.”

Trevelyan nearly launches into a speech about how she wanted to become a templar to save him – like she had with Cullen in the past – but thinking about her brother makes her think about templars, and thinking about templars makes her think about _lyrium, lyrium, lyrium._

“What of Ostwick itself?” she asks, pausing for a moment to pick at some food and chew it thoroughly. “I have heard much of the city with dual walls, but nothing from someone who lived within them. Were there secret hiding places you and your brother would go to? What of the walls? How magnificent are they up close? How far out could one see when standing at the very top?”

Trevelyan struggles to recall what Anora has asked for. The secret hiding places, the brilliance of the walls, how much of Thedas could be seen from the very top… They were blanks, filthy, unwanted blanks in her mind that has her choking on her own voice, and her eyes watering at the fact that has presented itself.

She cannot remember.

It cuts her deeply, the fact that she cannot remember Ostwick in this instance. That she cannot recall the stories or the small, happy little places she would go to.

She cannot remember how she met Sera, Blackwall and now Vivienne – and she cannot remember _her home._

Trevelyan can’t help it – she begins to cry.

Alarmed, Anora puts her cutlery down and rushes to her side, “Inquisitor, are you well?”

“ _No,_ ” she chokes. “I can’t... _I can’t._ ”

She can remember the sting, the need and the feel of _lyrium_ but not where she _grew up._ She remembers the leash that tugged on her throat and the thousands before her, the desperation for it; but not why nor who she fought for – her home and all those within it, most especially her brother and those in need.

Maker… She was never going to be a good templar.

She still can’t remember her brother’s birthday.

* * *

Trevelyan is out in the field assisting in more relief efforts with Dorian, Cassandra and Varric when another major blank strikes her.

Dorian is talking with Orlesian soldiers in Emprise Du Lion – complaining about the freezing weather, no doubt – when Trevelyan realises she cannot adequately recall the chain of _events_ revolving around the Winter Palace.

Yes, she had accepted that she could not remember if Celene lived or died – she doesn’t handle so much political things, after all. But she also now cannot remember what led up to it, what happened during, and just after. And that’s a scary thought.

Did she go to Adamant before or after…?

Although the Winter Palace events were over a year ago, surely she could remember such a grand ball and the events within. She tries to remember who came out on top, but nothing comes to mind. She tries to envision Cole’s despair if Celene had been killed, but it won’t appear. She tries to recall the Iron Bull’s wide, pleased grin as he watches redheaded elves pass – but it won’t. She tries to see Leliana’s eyes, sharp and unyielding, watching the feet of every person in that room and somehow getting _good information_ out of bloody _shoes._

She refuses to remember Solas, for the pain of a good friend just _leaving_ like he did is still too near.

She remembers bone-deep exhaustion, and how she still found energy enough to dance with Cullen, but little else.

It upsets her that even though she is off the lyrium, it still eats away at her mind.

“You know, I think Dorian actually enjoys the cold,” Varric snits.

Cassandra snorts, and it makes the surface dwarf smile, “I hardly think _Fereldans_ are aware of how cold it really is down here. In Nevarra, the winters are warmer, almost like there is a blanket over your shoulders permanently. I have not been to the Tevinter Imperium, but I would wager that it is the same. Ferelden’s cold is simply too much.”

“You know what else is too much? The Inquisitor’s thinking face. Almost looks like she could rip a hole through the sky just with her expression,” Varric chimes.

That shakes her from her reverie for a moment and inspires her to ask, “I cannot remember the events of the Winter Palace. I… Who… is ruling Orlais now? Who did I support? Who was put there? Who died? What happened?”

Cassandra takes that as her cue to totter off to Dorian – Trevelyan is thankful that Cassandra is so mindful and sensitive to her memory loss. Varric takes a seat on snowy log and invites her to sit beside him as he asks, “What _do_ you remember?”

“Morrigan and her large dress. Florianne and… her anger. Cullen’s gentle hands. Exhaustion.”

Varric takes the information and begins to feed the gaps in between. Of how they had been invited by Duke Gaspard, and how she had bumped into Morrigan. As he continues, he finds that Trevelyan has pulled out her thick, green book and opens it across her lap. It’s enough to have his talking slow to a gentle stop as she writes down what he had said previously. Then he asks, “Might I ask what that is? You carry it with you everywhere now.”

“Just something Josephine got for me, nothing more.”

“Do you need me to slow down?”

“Yes, please.”

So he continues, watching as she scribbles down every word that comes from his mouth, as she looks around every so often, takes in her surroundings and jots them down too; and then it hits him. What the thick, green book truly is. What it means.

“It helps, sometimes,” Trevelyan remarks, answering the question he was yet to ask.

He simply nods and says nothing more.

* * *

Three months and eleven days after she stopped lyrium is when it strikes her the worst.

She has a fever. She has no patience. She wants to tear out her eyeballs and grind them into the dirt. She cannot remember what she has done at the war table for the past few days, and she cannot recall her parents’ names. She cannot recall the last time they contacted her, nor the way her stomach twists when Cullen smiles at her.

Because he is not smiling at her now, no.

“You don’t need it,” Cullen snarls.

“I can’t, _I can’t,_ I…”

“Inquisitor.”

“ _Commander._ ”

She is in his office. It is dark outside, and after supper, she ran all the way here – through Solas’ room, ignoring how lonely it feels and how haunting the images he has painted are – and began her search in Cullen’s office for her lyrium kit.

She cannot do it anymore.

Trevelyan is no templar. She never was and never could have been.

That does not lessen her driving need for lyrium.

“I cannot sleep. It hurts to shut my eyes, and I cannot rest,” she tries again, her voice sweeter this time, hoping to strike a sympathetic string in his heart. Because Cullen understands. Cullen suffers too. Cullen has stopped, but his eyes still linger, and his arms still twitch and flex at the very memory of lyrium.

“Have one of the kitchen staff procure something for you. I will not give you the lyrium.”

She swallows thickly – and it burns to do so – before she pulls at her hair. Trevelyan hisses at him, “Being off the lyrium has done _nothing,_ Commander. I am still forgetting. I cannot remember the names of my own parents. The places in Ostwick in which my brother and I would hide and play and laugh. I cannot recall how I met Sera, Blackwall and Vivienne. I don’t know who this _Alexius_ was nor why he was so important. I cannot recall who the ruler of _Orlais_ was, for Andraste’s sake! It has done nothing! It is still _eating away_ at me, still inside _my mind_. It will help me, _please, please_ let me have it.”

“It burns,” Cullen says solemnly, staring at the wall behind her. “A dull, constant burn that grows stronger with every waking moment – and when you finally wake from a horrible slumber, it only continues; like darkness swallowing the sun. Like despair destroying every bit of hope in your heart. Like the lyrium holds you in an oubliette.”

“You understand, _you get it,_ and yet you are still keeping it from me.”

“I don’t do so lightly. I do it out of love. You will thank me in the end.”

“Commander, I need it.”

“You don’t _need_ it!” Cullen yells, hands curling tightly into fists. “You are better than that!”

“I need it, _I need it!_ ” she shouts, just shy of begging, but fully prepared to do so. “ _Please,_ I can’t take this anymore!”

And then Cullen shouts her name. Not her titles or her surname, but her first name. It makes her stop.

He’s not angry. If anything, he’s gutted, and his hands are shaking by his sides, a test of his will, “You are the _Inquisitor!_ You walked out of the Fade, alive and sane not once, but twice! You saved all of Thedas from destruction! You stopped a darkspawn magister in his tracks, and you can’t get past _lyrium?!_ ”

“Don’t you dare say that to me! You know exactly what it’s like! How dare you become all high and mighty about this, just like when you spoke of Samson!” She sobs and her voice increases in volume as her fingernails dig into her palms, “He did not have the options you had, no matter what you might think! He did not have the support! And I have both, and I still cannot do it! This is not a simple _bear_ that can be beaten with great effort! _No!_

“ _I tried,_ Cullen! Don’t you dare think that I didn’t! Don’t you dare think I gave this such little effort! I am strong, but not enough for this! Not for this…” Trevelyan rubs at her eyes and scratches at her skin, as though she is trying to dig the very nerves from her body. “I feel like I’m coming apart…”

“You will not have the lyrium.”

Trevelyan slaps him then and leaves, trembling from head to toe.

Cullen resists the urge to grab the lyrium for himself.

\---

The next day, it is as though nothing happened at all.

Cullen stares at her incredulously, watching as she moves the tokens across the war table as though she were alright. Watching as she asks Leliana about her new shoes. Watching as Josephine asks what needs to be done to compensate some families in Nevarra following the battles up there.

Watching as she looks across to him and asks, “Cullen, what happened to your face?”

“It is of no concern, Inquisitor.”

“Someone has hit you and you won’t tell me who it was? Please tell me so that I may have a word with them. No one just goes around hitting my advisors like they’re… they’re… _training_ _dummies._ ”

“As I said before, it is of no concern. Can we please return to the matter at hand? The Anderfels are requesting military support from the Inquisition.”

She lets it go for a while and the meeting continues on as normal. But as they go to leave, she seizes his wrist just as they pass into the main hall and past Josephine’s office. She lightly strokes his palm with her shaking fingers, “You will tell me who left that mark on your face. I… need to know. You won’t keep this from me like you kept the lyrium from me.”

She remembers – partly – and yet not the entire picture. Like silk with holes cut within their beauty. He wonders if that is how she sees life now, in tatters rather than as whole pieces. He wonders if that is what other templars saw – if that is how he himself will turn out, in the end, even without the lyrium. Because she was right last night – she is no better even off the lyrium.

“You, Inquisitor.”

Trevelyan pauses, eyes widening and the corner of her lips pull downward. “I didn’t…”

“I would not return your lyrium last night. We fought. As a result, you struck me across the face. I can’t say it was without cause. You were… right about many things. That I did not think correctly of Samson. That I understand and still won’t… It is nothing. It will be alright.”

“I don’t remember. I don’t… I didn’t mean it.”

“It’s alright, Lady Trevelyan.”

“It’s _not._ Forgive me, the need for it was… beyond compare. I…”

“If I might speak?” She nods, releasing his wrist and wringing her hands nervously. Cullen scratches at his neck, “You have told me in the past that there was no benefit for you in sealing the Breach. Last night you said to me that being off the lyrium is not helping with your memory loss. That would suggest to me that the cause is neither the Anchor nor the lyrium in the first place.”

His words cause Trevelyan to freeze.

What if none of this was to do with the Anchor or the lyrium? What if she was already genetically on this path and the Anchor or the lyrium simply enhanced it? What if lyrium affected everyone _differently,_ and she was simply more susceptible to memory loss? What if the Anchor _and_ the lyrium, together, made this happen quickly? More importantly, why was nothing helping?

She pinches the bridge of her nose and exhales sharply. Her eyes cloud over, distorting what she can see. “Then what’s wrong with me?”

Cullen says nothing. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth and wonders the same. There are times he wished that he could find Wynne, one of the older mages from Kinoch Hold. This moment is one of those times, for seeing the Inquisitor so… _sad_ always makes him want to find the best possible course of action. Wynne knew so much. Surely she could’ve helped Trevelyan, or known where to send her for beneficial actions.

Maybe… Maybe it is the Anchor and the lyrium. Maybe it was both, and that even though they are gone now, their effects linger and continue to erode her mind, like sand dunes on the shoreline.

It is not a comforting thought.

“Lady Trevelyan, I…”

“I don’t want to forget you.”

Cullen blinks a few times as Trevelyan rubs her eyes.

“I don’t want to forget you,” she says again, exhaling harshly through her nose. “I don’t want to forget the first time I saw you at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. I don’t want to forget about how you became flustered when I asked you about _templar vows_. I don’t want to forget the smile on your face when I asked to spend more time with you. I don’t want to forget how you glowered at that soldier before we first kissed; the kiss itself; your determination to beat lyrium. I don’t want to forget a single moment, and yet they continue to slip away. I am afraid.”

“I love you,” he says softly, reaching for her hand.

“I want to remember that too.”


	4. IV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is the last chapter! Thank you for having a read of my little fic, I appreciate it a lot! Hope you enjoy this last chapter!

_“I don’t know. Perhaps.”_

* * *

Cullen does not return her lyrium kit, but despairs to find a new one under her bed a month later.

He had just been in the area, leaving reports on her desk for when she returns from the Emerald Graves in a matter of days when he just… _needed_ to see. Needed to know. And there it is. Small and kept neatly under her bed, amongst coats, shoes and books that she has tossed underneath. There is a part of him that is devastated to see it there, hurt and _angry;_ but there is a larger part of him that reminds him _not everyone can do it._

That hurts too.

The fact that the Inquisitor, the saviour of this world, cannot get past _lyrium…_ It hurts to think that he, a lesser man, can; and that the greatest woman cannot.

No wonder she’d been calmer.

She is trapped in its thrall, like an Orlesian dungeon cell with its only exit in the ceiling.

He leaves and asks Knight-Captain Rylen where she got it from. If she took it from the soldiers who needed it. But Rylen just shakes his head and swears that no soldier gave the box to her, nor did she ask them for it. It leaves Cullen thinking – where? How? Who gave it to her?

His answer comes from a surface dwarf penning his latest novel.

“ _Why?_ ” Cullen hisses.

“Because she _needed it,_ Curly,” Varric grits his teeth, and for a moment he grows concerned that they will shatter under the force. “You know how I feel about lyrium. I would rather burn the stuff than let it hurt another person. I saw what it did to Bartrand. I saw how it drove _your Knight-Commander_ mad. I saw what it turned people into – mages and templars alike. But did you ever stop for a second to think that maybe, _just maybe_ being without it _now_ is doing more harm than good?”

“She was supposed to conquer it!”

“Well not all people can do that! And you would do well to remember it!”

“ _I know_ that! How dare you insinuate that I –”

“Cullen,” Varric growls, and it’s the first time Cullen can remember the dwarf using his name rather than that stupid nickname. “I’m sorry. But not everyone is as big and brave as you. Not everyone can do what you did, whether they had the chance or the support or not. You saw what it did to people as much as I have. Your own colleagues, driven mad by the need for it; starved of it when it went away. Wouldn’t you rather have her as she is, forgetting, than thinking of nothing _but_ lyrium for the rest of her life?”

“I would rather that she made the choice for herself than you simply _give_ it to her.”

“She _asked_ me. More than once. And I relented when I saw her wandering Skyhold at night, lost and unsure of exactly where was. She thought she was somewhere in the _Free Marches._ ”

Cullen pauses at that, his fingernails chewing into the gloves on his hands. “Wandering?”

Varric rubs his temples and pushes himself away from the desk in front of the fire. It’s been a long time now since Hawke died, but he still cannot bring himself to face the flames, for they remind him of the Champion too much. “It’s getting worse. She won’t tell you because she knows how much it’ll hurt. So I gave it to her. It seems to help a bit, she’s forgetting slower. She’s even remembering a thing here and there. I don’t want to… _enable_ this, but… The Inquisitor needs it now. To whatever end.”

“Varric, this could _kill_ her.”

“There are many things that could _kill_ her. The lyrium will just have to get in line and wait to try after everything else.”

He smiles a little at that – morbid, isn’t it? – and Varric apologises again before saying he needs to resume his writing. In that moment, Cullen returns to the war room to meet with Leliana and Josephine – something about _Rivain_ and _pirates_ he remembers vaguely - when it really hits him. When everything finally sinks in.

The templars took too much of him. His youth. His compassion, his kindness. But he found them again in Lady Trevelyan, and now the templars have taken her too.

He wishes lyrium never existed.

* * *

Trevelyan runs into his office the moment she returns, “There’s something I need to tell you –”

“I know.” Cullen says, aching and exhausted. His eyes don’t leave the work in front of him.

“Are you going to leave?” Trevelyan asks quietly, her voice trembling like leaves in the wind.

He looks up at her at last, hurting but no less in love with her, “I don’t think I ever could.”

* * *

From thereon in, the Inquisitor goes to _extraordinary_ lengths to keep Cullen away from lyrium.

She does not mention it around him. If he asks if it’s helping, she will answer honestly, but not push it further. She doesn’t mention the sensations, doesn’t talk about her templar abilities – they are strong again, even though they are still no longer necessary. She orders that any talk of lyrium restocking for the few mages and templars that remain under the Inquisition’s banner go through her rather than the Commander. All lyrium miners are diverted from his care and into hers, not for her use but just to make sure it is away from him.

He wakes less at night. The nightmares remain but they are not as bad. She wakes more and fights to return to sleep.

If she does not remember how to inject it, she calls for Varric instead. His work is clumsy, but it is the pattern that he remembers and she doesn’t. Trevelyan says once as her eyelids slide downward through the rush of the lyrium, “I won’t drag him down with me. I don’t want him to fail because of my weakness.”

Varric thinks of Merrill and how she thought the same of her Eluvian and Hawke.

That night she goes down to the tavern to drink with Varric, Dorian and… _and…_

Maker, no.

“The Iron Bull,” Varric supplies helpfully, gesturing to the great, hulking horned figure opposite him; the one with one eye who is fighting to keep the worry from his face, “I do believe you have some stories for us about shitty times in Par Vollen. What were they again?”

Trevelyan listens, but she cannot hide her despair at forgetting one of her friends. But as she listens, she realises… that she has forgotten more than simply a name. That there are people missing, ones who have moved on from the Inquisition that… _helped…_ that she cannot recall.

There was a man that she used to converse with, one with a great, black beard and a broad shield. Why could she not remember him? There was a girl that she used to have fun with, with haphazard, blonde hair and… _arrows._ Why could she not remember her? There was a woman, full of power, mystery and determination. Why could she not remember her either?

The elf mage. _S_ -something.

_Maker,_ no.

Pieces, _important, wonderful_ pieces that no longer fit in her mind.

When she returns to her quarters to rest and requests that Cullen does not stay here for the night, Trevelyan ends up crying for hours.

* * *

“I wish to step down as Inquisitor.”

Leliana’s eyebrows, perfect and poised, nearly fly off her face, “I beg your pardon?”

They are at the rookery, amidst many black feathers and letters that need to be sent. Trevelyan didn’t like coming here too often, but she knew that Leliana wouldn’t judge her or immediately say _no_ without letting her explain first. Trevelyan runs her fingers through her hair – they shake always, now – and repeats, “I wish to step down as Inquisitor.”

Her mouth runs off at a mile a minute, then. She wants to step down because she cannot adequately assist those who need it. She wants to allow others the opportunity to assist. She doesn’t _need_ to be here anymore, doesn’t _need_ to help; the… mark… in her hand is shut, an ugly green scar like the one in the sky.

“If I might suggest,” Leliana says, squeezing Trevelyan’s shoulder, “Perhaps you should search for someone to fill your shoes. The world will always love and remember you for what you have done, for sealing the Breach; but if you feel –”

“The Breach?”

“The… The scar in the sky that you sealed with the mark on your hand. Do you not remember?”

“I scarred the sky?”

“No, you stitched it shut, _you saved_ it.”

Trevelyan exhales and wrings her hands. “That’s right, I did, I think. With a man and two elves by my side; those whose names I cannot recall, and whose faces are fading away with every passing moment.”

“Blackwall and Sera have moved on. I still cannot find Solas, though I am told that Vivienne is using her resources as Divine to continue the search. It has only been two and a half years, my lady. It is upsetting to hear that your mind is coming apart, like threads on an old blanket, after such a short time.”

“Upsetting to _you?_ _Upsetting_ to _you?_ ” Trevelyan spits, lifting her chin. “It is not your mind that is fraying. You are not the one forgetting not only facts and things done, but now names and faces of those you _care for_.”

“I only meant –”

“I will speak with Josephine about a replacement for myself.”

And Trevelyan leaves, fighting to cement the faces with the names she heard.

* * *

Cullen still sees the desire demon in his mind, rummaging through it for useful information.

He still sees the way the desire demon seizes the memories of Amell, lovely Amell, and distorts them into something horrible and _wrong._ But Cullen knows now the difference, knows who is real and who is not; and he would apologise to Amell, deeply and profusely, if she had not sacrificed her life to end the Fifth Blight.

He still says he’s sorry in his own little ways.

Trevelyan, with her warm hands and warmer heart, still shakes him from those times, trying to wake him up. Her voice pierces the nightmares. Lovelier than the sound of lyrium. And he wakes, shaking but still himself, still the man he should be, making the difference he always wanted to make.

“Cullen,” she says, “It’s alright. You’re fine. You’re…”

Cullen sees it in her eyes before she registers it herself – the trapped expression. Trevelyan doesn’t remember where she is. She knows she is safe here with him, but not where she is. She begins to pull away, fingers curling into her palms as her eyes dart around the room, trying to make sense of it.

“This isn’t Ostwick –”

“Lady Trevelyan –”

“Where am I?”

“You’re here,” he rasps, grabbing her hands and trying to blink away the drowsiness and the sadness that threatens to swallow his heart – because she should not be like this, and he cannot do anything about it. “You’re here with me. We are in Skyhold. We are safe, and we are well.”

Trevelyan clutches his hands so tightly that he fears letting go will send her into a downward spiral. So he sits up a little more and holds them, waiting for her to recognise her surroundings and settle down. He watches her green eyes dart about, taking in the desk and the heraldry; and when she relaxes at last, recognising her surroundings, he draws her body close to him and holds her.

“You are in Skyhold with me,” he murmurs.

“In the Frostback Mountains,” she says; and then she adds with a rare moment of clarity, “We came here after Haven was destroyed. Solas led us here.”

“Yes.”

“Corypheus is dead.”

“Yes.”

“Sometimes… I feel like he is still here, calling me and desperate for…” she tightens and loosens her left hand repeatedly against his chest, trying to recall the name, “the… Anchor. I feel like he is still speaking to me in the Fade, telling me how worthless this entire endeavour is – was – and that I will ultimately fail. I feel like he will take away those I care about. I feel like he is _still here,_ that I still see him.”

“He is dead. You slew him yourself. He cannot come back. He will not come here.”

Trevelyan, to an extent, still feels like Corypheus won. Yes, the world is not in turmoil. Orlais is stable. He is gone, as is his dragon, and the Breach is sealed. But her mind is still falling apart, just as he promised. She is still forgetting, and there are times where she cannot recall the efforts of the Inquisition to subdue him.

She remembers the monster but not the men who fought him – and in that sense, he still lives.

“Go back to sleep,” Cullen says, still holding her close against him. “I will be here.”

Trevelyan tries to fall asleep again but she never really does.

All this because she wanted to become a templar.

* * *

Trevelyan and Josephine go over their options for a new Inquisitor. It takes months and lots of do-overs because of Trevelyan’s memory problem; but they reach a decision, one that they both agree on, even as she gradually stops writing in her thick, green book.

“Don’t stop writing in it, please,” Josephine begs.

“It is hard now,” Trevelyan answers with finality.

The other advisors and the companions who remain are frustrated with the decision, but they understand. Trevelyan believes this is the best option, and so they will support her. Trevelyan cannot be the woman they need her to be anymore – that doesn’t mean that they will cast her aside so easily, or that she is a different person.

It also doesn’t mean that the new Inquisitor, a surface dwarf from House Cadash, forgets her contribution nor appreciates his selection. Cadash runs everything by Trevelyan and continues her steady supply of lyrium using his connections to the trade; and he ensures that she is safe and that no criminal will come near her. Cadash is nothing like his brethren – Varric validates this.

Cadash tries hard to include Trevelyan in everyday things. They go over reports together. Cadash asks why the Commander is not so fond of him, and Trevelyan just shrugs and smiles. She asks him about how things are out on the field, seeing as she now doesn’t trust herself, templar abilities or otherwise, to go out there. Cadash says that things are well. Her – their – companions confirm it.

It is Cadash who finds her wandering Skyhold at night, more than once, and always unsure of where she is. And like those around her, he reminds her that she is in Skyhold with the armies and followers she amassed.

But this time it’s not working.

Cole appears, still ghostly and haunting, and says how she wants to go _home_ but she doesn’t know where that _is_ anymore. Cole tries to remind her using flashes of her memories that he once had been privy to – except no, she cannot recall her brother’s birthday, or the time that they ate so many sweets that their stomachs _ached._ But that doesn’t work either, and it sends Cole into a panic.

“I don’t know where I am,” Trevelyan chokes, rubbing her eyes. “I don’t know where _I am._ ”

“I want to help,” Cole says, pulling down on one side of his hat. Cadash has long run off to get Cullen. “Let me help you, my lady. Let me in – why won’t you let me in to help?”

“Who are you?”

“I’m _Cole,_ ” he exhales, frustrated but no less determined to assist, and in no less pain.

It doesn’t register in her mind nor across her face. She stares at him, wide eyed and unsure. She looks at his hat. His face. At his dishevelled, patchwork clothes and at the way the spirit then literally vanishes before her eyes; and then she forgets what she was looking at.

She ends up at the tavern, looking around for familiar faces. None of them register. The horns on the man in the back frighten her so much – remind her so much of a dragon that keeps popping up in her mind – that she begins to back out.

“Lady Trevelyan.”

Her head snaps around, easily recognising the deep sound. Cullen is behind her, cloaked and caring and _familiar_. So she rushes to his side, not noticing his pained expression nor the way Cadash shakes his head.

Why is the world so unfamiliar?

* * *

It is four years to the day since Corypheus was defeated, and the Herald of Andraste herself remains in her bedroom in Skyhold, a shadow of who she had once been.

Varric ascends the long-and-bastardly-endless-for-dwarf-legs stairs, ignoring the sounds of celebration behind him, armed with some sweets he has smuggled from downstairs. It took a lot of patience, waiting for Cassandra to turn her back and for Josephine to be too engaged in conversation, but he managed. It’s the least he can do for Trevelyan; as it is, it’s time for lyrium.

When he opens the door, she is sitting on her bed and looks right through him.

He knows now that she has lost him too.

“Hello, Lady Trevelyan. How are you this morning?” he tries.

“I’m sorry but, do I know you?”

“Of course you do. You just can’t remember right now, and that’s alright. But look,” he hides the pain and approaches her, holding out a wide hand with some sweets sitting atop them. It seems to calm her, “I’ve brought you these from downstairs. Cadash is taking care of everything, you don’t need to worry; but I couldn’t let you stay up here without at least trying these.”

Trevelyan’s guard falls slowly. It is down completely when she takes the sweets from Varric’s hands and begins to unwrap them, almost childlike. As he sits next to her on her bed and draws the box out from beneath it, she says, “You look familiar, but I don’t know why. Are you a friend of Cullen?”

“He and I go way back,” Varric laughs a little, and that seems to please Trevelyan, who relaxes entirely. “It’s time for lyrium. Could you roll your sleeve up for me?”

“Lyrium?”

He waits for her to recognise the box and its contents. For the name to drop into her head – but it never does, and that surprises him. For something she had become so dependent on, for something that she… _needed_ , and now she cannot remember it. Varric doesn’t know if this is a good sign or a bad one; the bastard lyrium has all but destroyed her mind anyhow, or made it worse.

They never did find out what made her memories go – her genetics, the Anchor or the lyrium. But whatever the answer, it has trapped her, and they lose her more every day. 

He thinks for several moments on how to approach the situation – to give it to her, or not to give it to her. He doesn’t know what else to do – he thought it helped, and maybe it did slow the memory loss over time, but the lyrium did not stop it. In the end, Varric places the kit back under her bed and tells her not to worry about it; and he asks with genuine interest, “How was your day today? Do anything interesting?”

She answers him while chewing on sweets, “I met two new people today. One was a woman, she had an eye on her armour. Her name… Her name…”

“Cassandra,” Varric supplies, taking one of the sweets from her hand to have for himself.

“Yes, that was it. And another man, with fabulous black hair and he was so _charming._ ”

“Dorian.”

“Yes, Dorian, that was it,” Trevelyan furrows her eyebrows and asks, “Are they yours and Cullen’s friends too?”

“Well my lady, we’re all friends here,” Varric grins. “And we all care about you, whether we remained in Skyhold or moved on to other places in Thedas.”

He remains, with Cassandra, Dorian, Cullen, Josephine and Leliana. Blackwall is with the Wardens at Weisshaupt, where he ought to be. Sera is… somewhere, doing things for her little organisation. Vivienne remains Divine, and they fear her as they should. The Iron Bull left with the Chargers, but they remain in contact and act as Inquisition soldiers of sorts, assigned to places here and there. Cole has moved on, unable to bear the fact that he cannot help Trevelyan. And Solas is still nowhere to be found, dissipated like a wolf’s howl on the wind.

There is silence – uncomfortable, horrible silence, unlike the times before when they were wandering Haven or the Hinterlands – as Trevelyan finishes up the sweets Varric brought for her. But she stares at a particular one before devouring it, minty fresh and encased in dark chocolate. She stares at it like she remembers something, so Varric tries, “Have you had that one before?”

“I… I don’t know,” she answers, chewing on its remains.

Varric knows. She has. It is one of the sweets she specifically mentioned to him in camp once, when discussing brothers and how they were no longer alive. He runs his fingers through his hair, “I think you have. With your brother, back in Ostwick.”

“My… brother?”

Varric’s stomach falls to the floor.

Trevelyan searches his face and becomes increasingly uncomfortable when the dwarf continues to stare, unresponsive. She wrings her hands and looks to the stone floor, her eyes tracing patterns in its cracks uneasily, “Where’s Cullen?”

“I’ll get him for you, just wait here.” And Varric hops off the bed, goes back down the stairs and wonders where on earth Trevelyan went.

* * *

It is perhaps the saddest thing Cullen has ever seen – Trevelyan’s decay.

The death of Meredith was always something that struck him as unfortunate rather than sad. Despite her anger and her forthcomings, somewhere in there was a good woman who was swallowed by rage. Hawke’s death too was unfortunate and most certainly regrettable. The less he thinks of Amell and how she died saving an entire, thankless nation, the better.

But Trevelyan, she has done nothing but good things, and she is… rotting away.

She scarcely recognises anyone now, except for him. From time to time she recalls Varric’s name and knows how good a friend he is. It always makes the surface dwarf teary, and she always jests that he will omit that in his future tales. Her recognition for Varric occurs more than for Cadash, Cassandra or Dorian – but she at least recognises them as friendly faces. She is polite to Josephine, but uncertain. Leliana frightens her, and he can understand that. The Iron Bull came by once, and she was fascinated by his horns. Blackwall, Sera and Vivienne remain away.

She hasn’t had the lyrium in a long while now, but it has done its job. Or if it were not the cause, it is certainly the reason she has cracked so badly. Just another thing that the Templar Order has taken; and it will take more, under Vivienne’s command or not.

Trevelyan never does remember her brother again. A man in her memories, lost to time.

Cullen grieves for that in private, for it was someone the woman he loved missed and cared for dearly.

He wants to remember her brother’s birthday, but she never said what it was.

“Could I have some more tea?” she asks him, holding out her small cup. The one with wolves dancing across it.

“Of course,” he says, taking it from her and moving towards her fireplace.

There is silence as he busies himself, as Trevelyan looks at the books by her side. That is how she passes her time now, reading – but the stories within never seem to stick anymore. Stories of the Blights, of the Qunari invasions of Kirkwall, of the wars between the Tevinter Imperium and Orlais. The most recent book she is combing through is the recount of the Winter Palace, all those years ago – and she reads it as though she were a spectator rather than actually _being there,_ actually _involved_ in what occurred.

Cullen notes that she is particularly quite hesitant about the thick, green book she used to write in – she hasn’t written in it since Cadash was appointed the new Inquisitor. She won’t even open it. When Varric is here, he tries to get her to do so, but every time she refuses and she doesn’t know why.

“The one who left… The elf mage…”

“Solas,” Cullen says softly, looking at her from the corner of his eye as he finishes pouring some more tea for her.

As he returns to her side, he watches as the recognition literally lights up across her face, like the flames dancing across the fingertips of young mage apprentices for the first time. “Yes, Solas.” And then her voice is small and hurt. “I wish he hadn’t of left.”

“You were good friends. You taught each other much, and you bonded well,” he says idly, watching as she brings the cup slowly to her mouth, trying to register the words that he had just spoken.

Cullen returns to his reports, looking over them in his lap as Trevelyan resumes her reading. It is peaceful and quiet, and he only wishes she could remember everything. And he thinks she wishes it too, because although she cannot remember every detail in her life, when she sees the pain in his face – or Varric, Cassandra, or Dorian; Cadash doesn’t seem to affect her – she clearly still frowns at their sadness.

Trevelyan grabs the furs of his cloak, turning him towards her. He looks at her questioningly, wondering if he has become someone unrecognisable or threatening in her mind. But then he feels her fingers unwind and slide up his neck, tracing along his stubbled jaw line and then resting on his cheeks. She is smiling at him sweetly, “I love you.”

He closes the distance faster than he can think.

It is the last time she ever says those words.

She still tastes like lyrium.

* * *

“A lake, chilly but warm, meaningful and quiet. Please stay.”

Cullen nearly leaps out of his seat at the sound. He rubs his forehead and looks across the room, finally settling on the spirit boy with the oversized hat, the one who has not been here in many months, “Cole, you startled me.”

“Can’t forget. I don’t want to forget,” Cole chokes, trying to breathe but struggling to do so, like every inhale is gradually poisoning him from the inside out. “Trapped. Exit bolted shut. I can’t get out. I don’t want to forget anymore.”

Cullen furrows his eyebrows and begins to stand.

“Maker, not him too. Please let me have this. Only this, if nothing else at all. Let me forget my brother and his magic; Father and his strategies; Mother always said ‘modest in temper, bold in deed’ and I don’t care to remember. Let me forget the elf mage that was my best friend. The dwarf with the stories who comforts me and never judges. The others who visit. But not him. Maker please, not my dear Commander.”

He doesn’t see Cole disappear. He is running to Trevelyan’s room, through Solas’ old room, which is still empty but adorned with the artworks of her triumph. He doesn’t see that Varric is gone today, no longer by the fire penning more tragedies. He doesn’t notice that Cadash has gone to Kal-Sharok for the time being, because _please, don’t let her forget me too._

His hands slip on the door, but once it’s open, he takes the stairs up two at a time until he sees her there, sitting on her bed, with her hair tied back and away from her tired face. Maker, she looks so tired.

“Yes?” she asks tentatively.

“Lady Trevelyan,” it’s all he can get out amidst his huffing.

She waits for a moment, as though she is cataloguing his entrance, his appearance and his words.

He waits, his heart suspended in his throat.

And then she smiles, “Cullen.”

But Maker, it is not a smile that reaches her eyes.

“Was there something you needed?” Cullen asks, approaching her with cautious steps – and he stumbles into the lyrium kit on the floor, finding it open but unused – a clear sign that she was curious but not willing to find out. But that’s unimportant, as he tiptoes around other things she has pulled out from underneath the bed – she remembers. She remembers his face and his name; but he wonders if she remembers that she loves him, because he cannot see it in her eyes. He hopes she does.

Trevelyan shuffles aside and allows him to sit beside her. She fiddles behind her, going through the books that are stacking up and across one side of the bed – and then –

“Would you… _read this_ to me?” she asks, eyes wide, trusting and almost childlike.

It is the thick, green book. The one she wrote in for so very long.

He stares at it, and then at her. He feels sick. His chest aches. His nerves demand lyrium to deal with the painful situation. Maker’s breath, this is hard.

She holds it out further to him, trying to place it in his gloved hands as he sits beside her. She smiles, and it still will not reach her eyes, not like when he is above her in the dark, not like when they were by the lake, and not like when she saved the world. She stumbles over her words a few times before the sentence begins to tumble, but once it does, he listens carefully, “I can’t make sense of the handwriting, but I very much would like to listen. It interests me, and you are nice, comforting and safe. What is the story about?”

Cullen takes it from her hands gently. He lays it across his lap and opens the thick, green book to the first page and sees for the first time what is inside it.

In an instant, his heart breaks.

“Please don’t make me read this,” Cullen begs with a shaking voice, looking back up at green eyes that register who he is, but not what he _means_ to her. Like he is a ripple in the pond, but not the entire scene anymore. Like he is important, but not enough, not like he had once been. Not like she still is to him.

“Cullen,” she sighs softly, settling back into the plush pillows, still smiling and eager to listen.

He blinks away tears and looks back at the words on the page. He flicks through the book in sections, getting glimpses into the loopy writing that adorns every single one of them; words that were confidential and not meant for him. Descriptions of things he didn’t know – recounts of things most private. The way her brother was taken to the Circle. The way the Iron Bull made her laugh so hard that she choked on her drink. The way she feels when she reaches for his face and cradles it in her hands; when she kisses him and what she feels for him.

The journal that she fought to fill to the brim with her achievements, her memories, and those she cared about.

She reaches for his hand and curls her slim fingers around his wrist. And for a moment it feels like nothing has changed at all.

He never could and still cannot say no to her.

“This is the story of the daughter of Bann Trevelyan, leader of the reborn Inquisition.”

* * *

**END**


End file.
